Saunders and the Gentleman Caller
by Ash10
Summary: A "Combat!" fiction challenge. NOW UP, part two. Will bad weather, a wounded Caje and Germans hot on their trail keep Sergeant Saunders and his scout from finding their way home? What will the faith of a small dog have to do with it? R&R, please!
1. Chapter 1

Saunders glanced up. Checking him out from the rim of the deep foxhole was a pair of dark eyes set in a comical mask. Brushy eyebrows rimmed the expressive eyes and a mustache of monumental proportions enhanced an open laughing mouth, the overall effect not unlike that of a prim and proper British gentleman. All that was lacking was a pipe held firmly between the small white teeth. What the apparition did **not **resemble was a dog.

Had the situation not been so dire Saunders would've laughed out loud. As things stood he chuckled softly.

"What're you doing here, boy?"

Saunders reached out a hand. The dog sniffed the extended fingers and woofed in response. Although the sergeant could not see the dog's tail, he knew it had to be wagging furiously if the animated expression on the dog's face was any indication.

Saunders patted his thigh. "Come on, boy. Come on in."

The dog whined and seemed unsure if he wanted to join his new friend in the foxhole, but after a moment of Saunders cajoling, the little dog took the leap of faith, landing in the G.I.'s arms.

Saunders held the wriggling body close to his chest while attempting to keep the dog from thoroughly washing his face with its overly moist tongue. In a moment the dog relaxed and Saunders got the first good look at the animal.

Underneath a matted wiry coat, the animal was skinny to the extreme. Saunders felt the bones as he worked his way from neck to rump with his hands. The end of the long tail was missing and the pads of the feet were raw.

Saunders sighed. He put the dog down while he rummaged through his knapsack. A moment later the starving animal was enjoying his first meal in who knew how long, courtesy of the American soldier and an opened can of mystery meat. The mutilated tail wagged in bliss as the little dog got down to the business of eating.

"It's a wonder you remember _how _to eat."

***

The little dog, named Lucky by the men, became King Company's unofficial mascot. Lucky accompanied the men everywhere, becoming friendly to each of the squad members but remaining staunchly loyal to the man who'd first befriended him, Sergeant Chip Saunders. If Saunders left the dog behind due to a dangerous mission, Lucky waited patiently at the spot where he'd last seen the sergeant. No amount of coaxing or bribing would move the little animal from the spot. Only the reappearance of the sergeant could do that.

One day the sergeant did not return. Lucky waited and waited. The weather turned poor; rain pelted the ground and the wind blew madly, yet still Lucky sat, all his attention turned toward the road where he last saw his beloved sergeant.

"Well, Littlejohn? Where's Lucky? You said you'd get him in. Where is he?" Kirby sat on his pallet nursing a sprained ankle. He lit up a smoke and waited for his friend's reply.

Littlejohn held out his hand. At the base of his thumb several small punctures oozed blood. His shoulders were rounded with defeat and his expression was, well, hangdog.

Kirby shook his head. "Couldn't do it, huh? Couldn't get one little ole dog to come in outta the rain. Pitiful, Littlejohn. Just pitiful."

The big PFC sat next to Kirby on the floor. "You try then. Let's see how far you get!"

Kirby shook his head. "No way. Mama Kirby didn't raise no stupid children. If that dog don't wanna move for nobody but the Sarge, well then he can just stay put is all."

Littlejohn finished wrapping a handkerchief around his bleeding appendage before looking up at Kirby, his expression worried. "What if…what if the Sarge doesn't come back?" His voice was a whisper as if to say it out loud would make it come true.

"Aw, that's a stupid thing ta say. A course the Sarge is comin' back." But Kirby wasn't so sure. Saunders and Caje had been gone way too long for a simple recon. Kirby shifted on his pallet. "What a stupid thing ta say." He rolled over, showing Littlejohn his back.

***

Lieutenant Hanley stood in the doorway his attention focused down the road. Saunders and Caje had been gone almost 24 hours. The recon should've taken 8 at most.

The bedraggled shivering figure of the little dog caught Hanley's eye. He'd witnessed Littlejohn's attempt to pick up the animal and Kirby's furtive try at doing the same which, like Littlejohn's effort, ended in failure and some minor bloodletting.

Hanley tossed the butt of his smoke out into the wet street and ducked back inside his temporary command post. A moment later he reappeared, a worn towel in hand. Lucky never turned at his approach, but a low growl alerted the officer the little dog knew he was there.

Hanley crouched down and draped the towel over the dog. Lucky made no move to snap. In fact he raised his head and looked up at the lieutenant as if to say thanks. Whether it was thanks for not trying to keep him from his self-appointed post or thanks for the rain coat, it didn't matter to Hanley.

"That's okay, boy. I'm not going to move you. You just wait there for Saunders. He's coming back. You know it. I know it."

END


	2. Chapter 2

Saunders and the Gentleman Caller, Part 2

By

Ash

Caje tripped over his own feet, the usually agile scout driven to exhaustion by a patrol that went on for an eternity, or so it seemed, and a still bleeding shoulder wound. Saunders slipped an arm around Caje's waist and together the two, weary beyond words, ragged and bloodied, stumbled onward, the sergeant hoped toward their own lines and home.

What should have been a simple recon had turned into a nightmare of fear, pain and unrelenting misery. Eight hours max turned into two days, two days without sleep, in a chill driving rain, with a squad of krauts hot on the men's heels. Saunders felt like a fox driven before hounds. He and Caje got the information for which they searched, the Germans had begun a build-up of troops and armor for a push designed to drive a wedge between the Allied troops, cut them off from their supply lines and finish them, but if Saunders and Caje didn't get that info back, thousands of lives would be lost.

Caje groaned, but Saunders couldn't spare him a glance. He had to keep his eyes to the ground, his path true. One more stumble from either of them and the krauts following close would be on them in a flash. As miserable as the rain was it at least kept a curtain between predators and prey, a curtain of sight and of sound.

The krauts weren't worried about sound. They plunged through the woods, their boots stomping and sloshing through mud and layered leaves, their voices raised in the fever of the hunt. But Saunders and Caje were silent, as silent as they could be, yet every breath, every slight moan from the Cajun, every squish of footfall in mud, sent shards of fear into the sergeant's heart. It wasn't fear for himself or even for Caje, it was fear of being caught and not making it back, of not being able to give HQ the information he carried. It was the fear of causing death to thousands of his comrades; Saunders shook with it. He and Caje pushed on.

Saunders' mind wandered. For a moment he thought about the little dog he'd left behind. Would Lucky be waiting for him, sitting as he'd left him, tail wagging, head on paws, a laughing smile on the funny face? Or would he have given up hope of every seeing his master alive? The sergeant shook his head, but the image remained. Such faith must be rewarded. Saunders' felt a bit of life return to the rubbery legs, a bit of clearness to his thoughts.

If he remembered rightly, there was a drop off ahead, more than a ditch, but less than a gully. If he and Caje could make that. He prayed it would be filled with water. It was.

They slipped and slid down the embankment and into the water which moved about them like eddies in a small river. From what Saunders could see it was also filled with debris, mostly leaves, but small branches, too, enough to offer camouflage.

Caje offered no complaint and asked for no explanation as Saunders took him into the frigid water. He trusted his sergeant implicitly and besides, he had no strength left for questions. Just breathing was difficult enough as the cold water closed around his chest.

The two men hunkered down, walking on the slick bottom difficult, but do-able, the water up to their necks, lapping at their chins. They moved slowly upstream, stopping when they heard the approaching Germans; the two Americans froze to the spot.

The Germans crossed the water further downstream and continued into the woods. Saunders didn't dare breathe. He waited, holding onto Caje, who slumped against the exhausted sergeant, for a good five minutes, until the only sounds he heard were rain, his own labored breathing and that of his companion.

****

The sound of barking alerted Lieutenant Hanley something was up. Grabbing his helmet he hurried out the door of the CP. Lucky stood at his appointed spot, his wiry body animated as he stared down the road. Hanley followed the dog's gaze, but saw nothing and no one. Bending down he patted Lucky on the head, but the dog would have none of the officer's patronizing attempts. He growled. Hanley drew back his hand.

"Have it your way."

Hanley turned to leave, but the dog's insistence got the better of him. "Okay, let's just see what's over that hill."

The officer's long strides took him quickly up the road, but the little dog beat him to the crest and over. Hanley picked up his pace.

In the middle of the roadway sat a pair of disheveled figures around which the little dog cavorted merrily, his damaged tail wagging a mile a minute, his red tongue lolling from a laughing mouth.

"Well I'll be damned," Hanley said, picking up his pace. "I'll be damned to hell!"

He squatted next to Caje and Saunders as Saunders attempted to fend off the little dog's over zealous attentions, but in vain. The sergeant gave up and allowed Lucky to wash not only his hands, but his face. "We got the information we were sent for, sir." Saunders ruffled the little dog's ears, managing a grin through a smeared mask of grime and blood. "He got us back, Lucky. I knew he'd be waiting and I couldn't let him down."

This time when Hanley reached out to pat the dog, Lucky made no attempt to thwart the efforts. Hanley smiled. "Whatever got you back works for me. If it was the faith of a dog, then so be it."

END


End file.
